On my way to propose to another woman, I spotted my ex-wife at a bus stop holding three kids with my exact eyes.

"I'm testing today," Ryan said.

His voice was no longer frantic. It was low, hollow, and possessed an absolute, dangerous calm that made Grace pause.

"What?" she breathed.

"I'm testing for the bone marrow match right now," Ryan said, turning his head toward Dr. Mercer. "Doctor, prepare the lab. Take as much blood as you need. Run a full DNA panel and an HLA tissue typing immediately. Expire whatever priority fees are required. I want the results expedited within twelve hours."

"Ryan, no—" Grace started.

Ryan turned back to her. He didn't touch her, but he dropped to his knees right there on the linoleum floor of the pediatric corridor.

He was wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, kneeling in front of his ex-wife, his hands resting flat on his thighs, his face turned upward in complete, absolute humiliation and repentance.

"You don't ever have to forgive me, Grace," Ryan whispered, tears finally overflowing his eyes, running freely down his cheeks. "You can hate me for the rest of my life. You can take every penny I own. You can ban me from ever speaking your name again. But let me save his life. Please. I am begging you on my hands and knees... let me try to save our son."

Grace looked down at the man who had once been her world—the powerful, proud executive who had never bowed his head to anyone in his entire life—now kneeling broken on a hospital floor.

Little Leo leaned his small head against Grace’s shoulder, staring down at Ryan with those serious, gray-blue eyes.

"Is he our daddy, Mommy?" the little boy asked in a small, quiet voice that pierced the silence of the hall.

Grace closed her eyes. A heavy, agonizing sob tore from her throat.

She didn't say no. She didn't say yes.

She slowly looked up at Dr. Mercer.

"Take him to the lab, Doctor," Grace whispered, her voice trembling.

Ten minutes later, Ryan sat in a small phlebotomy chair in the basement lab of St. Jude's.

He didn't flinch as the nurse inserted a heavy needle into his vein, drawing six large vials of blood into vacuum tubes. He stared at the dark red liquid filling the glass—his blood, his genetic code, the very substance that carried the key to either saving his son or sealing his death sentence.

As the nurse bandaged his arm, Ryan’s phone vibrated violently in his jacket pocket once more.

He pulled it out.

It was an urgent text message from Eleanor Vance:

Ryan! Where are you?! Arthur Brooks and Amelia are furious! The dinner was a disaster! Call me this instant!